Some things never change, he thought to himself, giving his cock a surreptitious rub as he remembered the first time she had undressed for him, and the delicious shock of discovering how much she hated underwear . . .
‘Are you ready?’ asked Heimdal, working hard to keep his voice steady and not betray the desperate tide of lust rising in his loins.
‘I am ready.’
‘Then kneel before the altar, and I shall perform the first of the sacred rites upon your body.’
Heimdal was proud of his ritual altar, which he had designed himself to look as much like an erect penis as possible, whilst retaining a superficial air of decency. He found that covert sexuality and heavy symbolism were a massive turn-on for the rich and repressed ladies who formed a large part of his clientele. Not that he needed to resort to such tactics with Mara: she was already an adept in all the rituals of lust.
Mara knelt before the altar, resting her hands upon the top edge, to brace herself.
Still fully clad and wishing heartily that he wasn’t, Heimdal slipped a hand down the front of his trousers and adjusted his cock to a more comfortable position. Then he drew back a curtain to reveal a rack containing a variety of magical paraphernalia: wands, magical vestments, jars and bottles of many-coloured potions and a range of instruments of torture and restraint, which Heimdal found most efficacious when used on his less co-operative clients.
He selected a jar of a shimmering silver liquid, a fine Chinese paintbrush with a wickedly soft and tapering tip, and a wand made from priceless medieval glass tipped with silver, which was said to have been owned by the magus Abra-Melin and to be endowed with strong magical powers.
Touching Mara’s naked flesh with the tip of the wand, Heimdal began to intone the rite.
‘Azriel,’ he began. ‘Me teket tekorem.’ And he took up the jar of silvery pigment and dipped in the tip of the paintbrush. Very carefully, he began to trace the shape of a pentacle in the centre of Mara’s back. The silver paint gleamed alluringly against her perfect golden skin. She shivered with a mixture of surprise and delight as she felt the fine hairs skating across her flesh.
The pentacle complete, Heimdal set about drawing a silver unicorn on either shoulder: both animals had huge horns and enormously erect penises.
‘Ezriel: te tekem tekorim,’ intoned Heimdal and, sensing that this was the moment, Mara rose to her feet before him. Opening up her buttocks with the tip of the glass wand, Heimdal applied the tip of the sable brush to the sensitive skin around her forbidden gate. Mara squirmed delightedly as, very delicately, he outlined her arsehole with silver, turning it from an amber rose into an exquisite silver one, its heart quivering with eager, impatient life.
Glitter-eyed silver serpents wound about Mara’s long, tanned legs, their darting tongues yearning for the dark and secret delights of her womanhood. When Heimdal was satisfied with his artistry, he turned her round to face him, and set to work on her beautiful heavy breasts. With infinite patience, he traced a filigree pattern of silver upon each perfect globe, finishing off his handiwork by painstakingly colouring each nipple so that it seemed he was gazing upon two exotic trinkets, enclosed within delicate lace bags, woven from the finest silver thread.
Moving down Mara’s belly, he adorned her with magical symbols: a pentacle, the Eye of Horus, mystical numbers half-concealed by the sheltering shadows of her breasts. A mighty serpent slithered forth from her navel, uncoiling its thick silver body down the length of her taut golden belly, and darting its ferocious tongue deep into the midnight-black forest of her pubic hair.
Kneeling before Mara, Heimdal once again parted her flesh with his silver-tipped wand. Opening up her plump cunt-lips, he revealed the rosy delights within; and, his breath quickening with every stroke of the sable brush, the mage Heimdal set about his work with a will. With relentless patience, he traced the inner cunt-lips with his brush, covering her with a pigment made from purest silver, mixed with aromatic oils and an aphrodisiac root. Though he worked assiduously, he could barely make the silver paint adhere to her cunt, so moist had Mara grown at his light but lascivious touch.
At last, when every nook and cranny had been silvered, Heimdal turned his attention to her last unconquered citadel. With the tips of his fingers he found what he was looking for and, sliding back its fleshy hood with a gentle touch, he exposed Mara’s clitoris and gasped with rediscovered pleasure, for he had forgotten how large and beautiful a clitty Mara had. Fully three-quarters of an inch long, it stood forth like a tiny penis, longing for the touch of a maiden’s lips or the depths of her virgin cunny.
With light but lingering strokes of the soft brush, Heimdal coated Mara’s clitoris with the silver pigment, making sure to tease her most intimate place with the tapering brush-tip, so that she twisted and turned in his grip, her body contorted in a silent agony of pleasure, as torrents of juice flooded out of her tormented cunt.
‘Ara tekim mahete,’ breathed Heimdal, rising to his feet and completing his handiwork with a kiss upon Mara’s forehead.
Mara knew that this was her cue to perform a similar rite upon Heimdal. It felt curious to be in the position of pupil and postulant – she who had taught Heimdal so much of what he now knew. And yet she had already begun to feel the power within his touch, the power emanating from his fingertips and into her own body: a power that was not merely sexual, though it struck long, ecstatic reverberations from her flesh and made her clitoris throb with uncontrollable desire. No: the power within Heimdal was the power of a genuine seer. She began to hope anew that he might be able to help her.
‘Azriel, mehe takim,’ she whispered. And she began to undress Heimdal, unfastening each button of his shirt with the most loving care, bestowing kisses upon each inch of flesh revealed as she peeled back the fabric. Casting his shirt upon the ground, she pulled off his sandals and set to work on his tight leather trousers.
Her fingers fumbled clumsily with the belt-buckle: the head of a Nordic sea-monster, cast in solid gold. Heimdal was doing well for himself.
Finally she succeeded in unfastening first the belt buckle, and then the button on his waistband. Button flies, she noticed with pleasure: she had always loved men who wore button-fly trousers. There was something so sensual in the act of unfastening the buttons, one by one, revelling in the gradual unveiling of the delights within.
The last button unfastened, she peeled away the skin-tight leather to reveal the briefest of G-strings, a tiny pouch in metallic silver-grey fabric, stretched to bursting by the bounty within. Mara smiled inwardly, for she remembered not only the surpassing beauty of Heimdal’s penis, but the vanity with which he had regarded it.
Heimdal stepped obediently out of his trousers and cast them to one side. Mara was already unfastening the bows which held the G-string tight against Heimdal’s crotch. First one yielded, then the other, and she stripped away the tiny triangle of fabric.
Heimdal’s cock was every bit as magnificent as Mara remembered it: appreciably longer than the average and thicker too. But, more than that, it was magnificently formed: smooth, white, blue-veined like the finest marble, and curving upward like some mad, ethereal bow, waiting to shoot forth its pearly arrows.
And there was something new which made Mara’s eyes linger on Heimdal’s impressive shaft. For there was now an exquisitely carved jade ring adorning the tip of his pierced penis: a ring in the form of a sea-serpent, whose gleaming green body passed through the flesh of his prick before emerging to seize its tail in its own ferocious jaws. The mythical sea-serpent, Jormungandr, who encircled the earth and who would, in his rage, bring poison and destruction upon mankind. A fitting ornament for Heimdal the Destroyer . . .
Mara touched the ring and moved it gently, feeling Heimdal shiver with the pleasure each movement produced. Evidently the ring was not there to serve some purely mythical purpose.
She longed to take the ring into her mouth; to tease it with her tongue and provoke Heimdal to ecstasies as she toyed with him.
But she must not dwell on pleasure: she was here to help Andreas and she knew what she must do.
Taking from the cabinet a brush and a jar of golden pigment, Mara set about adorning the seer’s body. Speaking words of power, she began by painting suns and moons on his shoulders and decorating his nipples with little crests of gold. Then she painted a great serpent emerging from the base of his spine and encircling his waist before returning to take its tail into its own mouth. His limbs and chest she adorned with beasts of prey: a lion, an eagle, a tiger.
And then, as a final tour de force, she painted Yggdrasil, the World Tree, sprouting forth like a massive phallus from the luxuriant thicket of his pubic bush.
Kissing the tip of his penis, which she had also decorated with golden paint so that it gleamed like some unearthly sword, Mara drew back and lay down upon the pile of animal pelts before the hexagonal altar. Casting a handful of sweet herbs onto the smouldering embers, Heimdal then turned to Mara and knelt between her thighs.
‘The ritual is of my own devising,’ he explained, bending to kiss Mara’s silver-tipped breasts. ‘First I shall pay homage to your body and then we must be joined. According to the laws of Tantra, we must lie together unmoving until the sweet herbs and woods have burned away; and then, and only then, may we complete the act of coition. At the moment of climax, I shall perhaps see into your past and future. Perhaps I shall even see what has happened to your lover, Andreas.’
His heart pounded as he performed the ritual acts of homage to Mara’s naked body; kissing each orifice in turn, and pressing fingers and tongue into her most intimate places, anointing her with warm, aromatic oils. At last. At last he was going to have her . . .
At last, he came to her cunt. The flood of warm oil mingled with the fragrant juices already flowing from Mara’s belly, for she was excited beyond endurance by this wild-eyed, blond giant with his magnificent, insistent prick.
Dazed with desire as she was, Mara was taken by surprise as, with one mighty thrust of his pelvis, Heimdal entered her, the exceptional thickness of his shaft forcing apart the delicate fleshy curtains of her cunt and causing her to gasp with the intensity of the sensation.
And then he lay still upon her belly, waiting for their abstinence to empower the ritual.
Mara’s flesh cried out to be satisfied. She wanted to scream out, ‘Take me, fuck me, fuck me!’ but she knew that she must have patience and endure.
The sensations flooded through her: a cascade of sense-impressions so intense it felt as though her entire body had been robbed of the top layer of flesh, all its nerves exposed and screaming together, half in pain, half in ecstasy. Heimdal’s prick felt fiery hot inside her belly – no, icy cold – she could no longer tell the difference. All she knew was that the power was surging between them in some cosmic interchange she could barely grasp, and that above all other feelings and desires screamed out one, greater than all the others.
The overwhelming desire to move, to thrust, to fuck.
They lay there, fused together like some obscene two-backed beast, for what seemed an eternity. Frustration reached a screaming-point and Mara opened her mouth to cry out in agony, but at that very summit of caged lust something miraculous and breathtaking happened.
It was as though a flood-gate had been opened: a flood-gate beyond which swelled and surged a great maelstrom of psychic energy and sexual desire. As the energy flooded through their bodies, Mara was overwhelmed by something she had never felt before: an entirely new kind of orgasm – an orgasm not only of the body, but of the mind and spirit. A seemingly endless roller-coaster ride of the most intense pleasure Mara had ever experienced.
At the moment of crisis, Heimdal’s mind was filled with a vision of what had happened to Mara in the cellars at Winterbourne Hall. Her sexual torment; the orgy at which so many had given themselves up joyfully to the service of the Master; the beginnings of the ceremony . . .
But it was an imperfect vision which flooded Heimdal’s mind. He could not understand it – normally the picture was so clear, so comprehensible. All he was getting now were the briefest flashes of images – intense colours and light interspersed with blackness and what sounded like very faint, very distant laughter.
It was as though someone – or something – was trying to stop him seeing what he sought; flashes of dazzling colour were zig-zagging across his sight now, almost blinding him and – like electrical interference on a television screen – preventing him from quite perceiving what was happening before his eyes.
A crystal dagger. A ring. Mara plunging the dagger into Andreas Hunt’s chest . . . Andreas Hunt dead . . .
Andreas Hunt rising to his feet, plucking the dagger from his heart . . .
And nothing. No more. With a great cry of frustration and pleasure, Heimdal felt his cock twitch, and a flood of semen gush out of him, leaving him exhausted and weak.
And, at that same moment, Mara heard it once again: the voice of Andreas Hunt, far far away, calling to her with the voice of a soul damned for ever:
‘Mara! Don’t leave me . . .’
They lay together for a long time, unmoving; unable to speak; their heads reeling.
At last, Mara found the strength to speak.
‘Did you . . . see anything?’ she gasped.
‘Hunt . . . I saw Hunt, his body alive and walking – but no soul behind his eyes.’
‘Andreas lives?’
‘His body lives. But his soul is not within his body. I believe that it now dwells within the crystal dagger which you were forced to plunge into his heart. His body walks the earth as an empty shell, a prey to evil, and I fear for him, I fear for him greatly.’
Mara’s face was ashen with horror.
‘Is there nothing I can do to save him?’
‘I believe that you must find the crystal dagger which contains Hunt’s imprisoned soul; and, if you are able to touch his flesh with the dagger’s point, you may yet succeed in reuniting his soul with his body. It is your only hope.’
‘But how . . .?’
‘I shall do all I can to help you. Trust me.’
And Mara trusted him, for in Heimdal she recognised Andreas Hunt’s only chance of salvation.
He was dreaming again; dreaming of Mara. Her violet eyes and sensuous lips and large, firm breasts filled his thoughts. And thoughts were all that remained to Andreas Hunt, imprisoned he knew not where or how or why.
His mind wandered between consciousness and sleep. A dim, dank alleyway; that’s where he was. A dark alleyway whose walls towered up on either side of him. He looked upwards, but the night-sky was obscured by heavy grey clouds that let only a mist of moonlight through. This place felt like a prison.
He felt a crunching sensation beneath his feet and glanced down. Broken glass littered the ground as far as the eye could see, glittering like a million malevolent eyes in the sickly moonlight.
He wanted to run but something prevented him, made his limbs as heavy as lead. They refused to obey him; though he strained with all his might to race away and out of the alleyway, he remained locked to the spot, the shards of glass crunching and grinding beneath his imprisoned feet. And, as he watched, the level of the glass seemed to grow higher, piling up around his shoes, his ankles, the bottoms of his trousers. My God! He was going to be buried in glass . . .
Panic overtook him. And then he heard a voice calling from behind him and a hand tapping him on the shoulder . . .
‘Andreas! Andreas! It’s me . . .’
Mara! Mara was here!
In his excitement, Andreas tried to turn to face her, and the strangest thing happened.
With a ghastly feeling reminiscent of a rickety roller-coaster, Andreas felt himself torn away from the time and place that held him prisoner and whirling into a vortex of coloured lights and confusion. Suddenly, he realised that he could see again.
But he was nothing more than a helpless, homeless spirit: a floating, incorporeal presence, looking at the inside of the cellars at Wint
erbourne; looking down on the dusty surface of a polished granite sarcophagus he recognised only too well. Looking down with sickening realisation at the place of his own imprisonment. And the words of the old song ran through his mind again and again, like a mocking chorus: ‘I ain’t got no body . . .’
A hissing sound made him look towards the corner. A rat was staring at him, beady eyes almost popping out of their sockets, teeth bared in a grimace of terror.
Why was it so afraid of him? What had happened to his body? Why was he so bloody scared?
It was the briefest moment of freedom. A few seconds, and it was over. The dizzy vortex drew him in, sucked him down, dragged him back beneath the lid of his granite prison. He could almost have imagined it had all been part of the dream.
A few moments, and darkness closed over him once more. Deaf, dumb, blind and shit-scared, Andreas Hunt wondered if he would ever fuck Mara Fleming again.
4: Mind-games
The Master was in an excellent mood. He was enjoying the day’s entertainment enormously. His new acolyte Igushi Takimoto had presented Winterbourne with two of Japan’s finest geishas, and the Master had spent a diverting morning watching through a two-way mirror as Professor Andrew McNulty learnt about Japan the hard way.
For these were geishas with a difference: trained not in submissiveness but in all the arts of retribution. Divine retribution . . .
‘Rising Sun’ was the name of the room in which they plied their trade, for it had been decorated to mimic a Japanese tea-house. But the subtlest of modifications had been made, to fit it for a more lascivious purpose. The hapless professor had been swiftly trussed up and was now suspended by his wrists and ankles, belly down, from the sturdy bamboo trellis which covered the ceiling. Silken ropes bound each hand and foot, and a leather mask and harness held his head up, forcing him to peer before him through the gaping eye-holes. He looked for all the world like some bizarre starfish, limbs spreadeagled, dangling helplessly from the ceiling.
The Phallus of Osiris Page 7